SONG OF THE IMPECUNIOUS BARD.

How many woes, the heavens beneath, The sons of men assume! For some, they say, are boomed to death, While some have ne'er a boom. And some like rockets rise and fall— A sadder lot have they Whose rockets never mount at all, But fizz and die away. My sun is sinking to the West— It did not fairly rise. In velvet coats I can't invest, Nor in Byronic ties. The very cheapest "shag" I smoke, My thirst on water quench— My latest sixpence when I broke, I knew I must retrench. Upon a simple scone I lunch, Or luncheon I ignore— I cannot even buy a Punch— A most terrific bore! But yet at Fleet Street, 85, From gazing none retard, And solace still may thence derive An impecunious Bard.